


Broken Hallelujah

by madamelibrarian



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean Winchester Being an Asshole, F/M, Haircuts, Long Hair, Non-Consensual Haircuts, Sam Winchester Gets a Haircut, Wrestling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-23
Updated: 2018-02-23
Packaged: 2019-03-22 19:20:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13770819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madamelibrarian/pseuds/madamelibrarian
Summary: Sam has his reasons for not wanting to cut his hear





	Broken Hallelujah

Inspired by: @winchesterswoonathon and her fic [“Works fast while you shower”](http://winchesterswoonathon.tumblr.com/post/132302020179/works-fast-while-you-shower)

Sam didn’t like barbers. He didn’t like scissors, clippers, knives or razors near his hair. Especially if they were being wielded by his brother, Dean. Some would say that Sam had an unhealthy attachment to his hair. At one point in his life he wouldn’t have thought twice about it. Sure, his dad and brother constantly nagged him to get haircuts, but he always put it off and ignored them. Until “The Nair Incident”. That was the year his brother, ass that he was, decided that depilatory cream in shampoo was the best way to get Sammy to cut his hair. What it ended up doing was giving him bald patches instead and he had to shave his head to a downy fuzz that had his date cringing and everyone else asking if they could rub it. He hated it. So from that day on he vowed he wouldn’t cut his hair again and made sure to use the tiny bottles of motel shampoo instead of the big family bottle. Even when Jess suggested a trim for his job interview, he promised he would think about it. Which he did, for two minutes, before deciding against it.  

**.oOo.**

Ten years later, his hair was nearly touching his shoulders. Soft waves framing his face and reaching the point where when he went on his morning jogs he was starting to tie it back with a simple black elastic. He didn’t mind it and had actually been complimented on it by a number of women, and one guy. All in all, he just didn’t want to cut it because the last time he had gotten close to cutting it, it had been thanks to Jess, and that memory stung too much. He caught himself, from time to time, admonishing himself for not giving her that one simple thing before she died. Would it really have been so bad?

On a quiet Monday afternoon, Dean looked up from his book and made a passing comment that it was probably time for Sam to get a cut because “What FBI agent looks like a barista from San Francisco?”

Sam ignored him. Wednesday afternoon, Dean came back from town with a new cut. He kept going on about the barbershop he found that “Still does an honest to god straight shave.”

Sam smiled to himself, imagining the pinched look Dean probably had during that fiasco; a stranger with an open blade to his throat, Dean wincing at every move of the sharp object. He couldn’t believe that his brother would actually tolerate it. Too much vulnerability. So Sam dismissed the idea for himself.

A week and a half later, Dean had stopped dropping hints and Sam forgot all about it. Coming back from a hunt, Sam dropped his duffel at the foot of the bed with the intention of taking care of it after he’d gotten some sleep.

In the small hours of that night, Sam’s door cracked open enough for the light of the hallway to pour into the room, casting a faint yellow glow on Sam’s sleeping form. Biting his lip, Dean snuck into the room with his weapon of choice in hand, and shut the door quietly behind him. He sent a silent prayer of thanks into the ether for rechargeable batteries, because trying to find an electrical outlet in the dark without waking his behemoth of a brother would have been nearly impossible.

Looming over his sleeping brother, Dean flicked the switch on the clippers in his hand. At the first snap-buzz of the grooming implement, Sam’s eyes snapped open in alarm. His hand flying out blindly to stop Dean’s hand, but what he actually managed to do was smack his brother in the face instead. Dean barked out a cry of surprise and pain when the heel of Sam’s hand impacted with his cheekbone but that didn’t stop him from jumping completely onto the bed to try and hold Sam down and give him a proper cut. Twenty years was too long and it was high time this happened.  

The two nearly forty year old men, who’d saved the world and faced off with the devil himself, rolled, kicked and one of them even bit the other; all for control of a simple pair of hair clippers and the sanctity of Sam Winchester’s hair length. When the dust finally settled and a nightstand lamp was turned on, each brother stood on either side of the bed looking shocked at each other.

Sam was the first to crack. He covered his mouth as his shoulders shook with laughter, “Dude, your hair.” he pointed at Dean and doubled up with more laughter.

Dean quirked up an eyebrow and picked up a tuft of hair from the crumpled up blanket. “What about yours, Sammy?”

The taller hunter’s eyes widened in disbelief and he ran down the hall to the bathroom. Slamming open the door he crossed to one of the mirrors and stared at his reflection. He could feel the sting of oncoming tears as he examined the uneven lengths and a section that had been shorn off above his ears.

Dean sauntered into the room, looking completely smug and  thinking that he’d missed most of the grazing of the clippers in the wrestling match, but upon seeing his reflection, Dean’s realized what his brother had been laughing about. The front of his bangs were missing entirely and there was a chunk missing from the side. “Son of a bitch!” Dean exclaimed as he ran gentle fingers over his hair.

“Serves you right, Jerk. Look what you did to my hair!” Sam’s voice elevated as he pulled one of the shorter pieces out from his head. “You couldn’t just leave it alone, could you?” he shoved Dean hard enough to make the man stumble a few steps and aimed a piercing glare (aka bitch face) in his brother’s direction. “I’m thirty-five years old. My hair’s none of your business.”

“You’re thirty-four.” Dean corrected as he ran his fingers through what was left of his hair. “Be glad I didn’t wait until you were drunk.”

Sam scowled and stormed out of the bathroom.

Two weeks later, Sam sat at the kitchenette table of a cheap motel in a dinky town researching for their hunt with a beany firmly pulled over his head. He still hadn’t forgiven Dean for what had happened, and overall he hated the haircut he had now. It was the same length he had in college and when he looked in the mirror each morning he wondered where that young man had gone. Then he’d remember a soft feminine voice asking him to think about cutting it because he had an interview to prepare for.


End file.
